Excerpt of Fan the Flames by Michele Dunaway

The alarm beeped once, indicating it was already turned off.

She frowned, then relaxed as she saw Brad’s coat tossed over one of the chairs surrounding the island. He must be upstairs working on the third floor. She hung her coat on the peg rack he’d installed and set her purse on the counter. She ascended the back stairs, and because she assumed he was one more floor up, paid little attention to where she was going. With a thump, she ran straight into him as he was exiting the hall bathroom.

“Oh.” She stepped backward, and Brad’s hands reached out and steadied her before she lost her footing and fell backward down the stairs.

“Careful.” He swung her around so she was fully in the hall. A shockwave powered through her. He leaned down and studied her, brown eyes concerned. “You okay?”

She gulped, but no words came out. Brad wore nothing but a white towel slung low over his hips, and it gaped above the knee, giving her a good glimpse of rock-hard thigh. She swallowed as her gaze traced the line of dark hair that made a path from his navel to the towel. A drop of water fell from his tussled hair and slid down his right pectoral. His abs went beyond six-pack. Another clear droplet fell. He’d been in the shower. Gone was the sexy stubble—his clean-shaven face smelled of cypress and eucalyptus.

She brought her gaze back to a face that was watching her intently. “You okay?” he asked again.

“I . . . I . . .” Her mouth dried. She felt fire. She wanted to lick the water from his chest, taste the salt of his skin. Follow that thin little scar over his heart. As if it had a mind of its own, her hand moved to that spot. Touched. Traced. A tremble went through him and his breath hissed. His hand covered hers and drew hers away. “Stop.”

“What? Does it hurt?”

His eyes darkened. “No. It’s long healed. But you can’t touch me like that. I can’t hold it together if you do.”

“Oh.” She absorbed the implications. It was hard to concentrate. His hand held hers. Seeing him wearing nothing but a quick-dry towel fried her equilibrium. His free hand gripped the towel, which tented in front. She wanted that white cloth to fall to the floor, expose what was beneath. Every one of her pores longed for more of his touch. Heat built. Was she wet? Holy hell. She fought for control.

She felt a bit light-headed. Weak at the knees. He must have sensed that, because he immediately let her hand go and snaked that arm around her waist, steadying her. Her hands pressed up against that rock-solid chest. Her legs intertwined with his; she could feel his erection. Her eyes dilated. Oh God. This desire was different from any she’d experienced. The overwhelming urge to have him inside her roared, filling her with pure need.

“You look woozy. Are you getting sick?”

“No.” Not unless every one of her dormant hormones powering back to life counted. Her knees buckled.